I work in a hotel. A lady comes in.

Lady: “What is your AAA rate tonight?”

Me: “It’s $115, plus tax.”

Lady: “Did you say $91?”

Me: “No, it’s $115, ma’am.”

Lady: *Laughing* “I can get it cheaper online.”

Me: “Okay, go ahead.”

I then have one of my guests already in-house come up asking for two more rooms for his coworkers. While I’m getting him his rooms, I can see the lady fidgeting around the corner, playing on her phone.

After I get the guy his rooms, the lady comes back.

Lady: *With attitude* “I’ve made my reservation.”

I looked in my system, and there were no new reservations. I refreshed and still no new reservations. She then tried to shove her phone at me. (Why do people do this? Seriously, stop it!) I could see right away what the issue was. She’d made her reservation for a property ten miles away.

Of course, I had my mask on, but you’d better believe I had a big smile when I told her that she was going to have to drive another ten miles to get to her hotel. Seriously, if you’re going to get a room somewhere, make sure you know where you are and that the hotel you’re booking is the one you actually want. Talking to me with attitude definitely isn’t going to help you out.

I run the office in a small family-owned auto repair shop. The owner is also the lead technician, so his days are very busy working on cars along with the duties of running the business. My job is to take care of everything I can on the business end so he’s free to concentrate on the repairs. Our policy is that the owner does not take phone calls, especially cold sales calls. If a customer or known vendor needs to speak to him and it’s something I can’t help with, the owner takes the call, of course. We get annoying sales calls all day, every day — my least favorite part of my job.

A youngish-sounding woman calls and asks to speak to “the owner.” She doesn’t call him by name, although she could find that information on our website in about three seconds.

Me: “I’m sorry, he’s not available. May I help you?”

Caller: “No, I need to talk to the owner. When’s a good time to reach him?”

Me: “I’m sorry, he doesn’t take calls. May I help you?”

Caller: “He doesn’t take calls?”

Me: “No, he doesn’t have time to deal with calls; that’s what he pays me for. Is there something I can help you with?”

I guess by this time, my tone may have gone from very polite at the beginning to a bit testy.

Caller: “No, you sound agitated. I’ll call back later and talk to the owner. Click.”

Sure, honey, because suddenly someone else will answer the phone in my one-person office and put you through to the boss. Oh, and of course, I’ll be less “agitated” when you call again.

We have a manager who is the least sympathetic person on the planet; this woman has no empathy or compassion to speak of. I once called her crying in pain because I needed EMERGENCY surgery due to an impacted wisdom tooth worming its way into my temporal-mandibular joint, and all she had to say was that I should wait to get it removed until a time more “convenient” for her. Basically, a raisin is where her heart should be.

We are discussing a new employee who is graduating with his Ph.D.; I am throwing him a party.

Owner: “When is the party?”

Me: “It is going to be [date]. I will get lunch and the cake he requested. I don’t know what we will do for lunch yet, but it cannot have avocados as he is allergic.”

Heartless Manager: “He is allergic to avocados? Poor thing. I couldn’t not eat avocados.”

Me: “Yeah, well, it shouldn’t affect things too much.”

Heartless Manager: *Continuing* “You know, I haven’t heard of an avocado allergy. There is no such thing. I bet he just doesn’t like them and says he is allergic.”

Don’t worry; she has zero say in the food choices, so she won’t get a chance to check that theory.

I’ve been suspicious for a while but a neighbour finally clued me in; some of the other neighbours’ kids have been using my back garden for the basketball hoop I set up.

I have mixed feelings; I don’t mind them using it, but every now and then something little gets broken or knocked over and hidden, or at least nothing said or apology given.

I decide to do the right thing and let their parents know, and let them know that it’s okay but that anything broken will have to be paid for.

I explain my thoughts to the kids’ mother.

Woman: “My kids wouldn’t do that.”

Me: “Look, it’s been happening for a while; other people have seen them. I’m not mad, but the breakages have to stop.”

Woman: “And I’m telling you it’s not my kids.”

Me: “Really? Okay, fine. If it’s these stranger kids — by the way, there are no other boys in the neighbourhood — who are using my garden, I will lock it, then.”

Woman: “Fine.”

Me: “Fine.”

I lock the gate and let the other neighbour know the kids shouldn’t be there.

Me: “Please let me know if you see them in my garden.”

Neighbour: “I’ll have camera footage if they do.”

Me: “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Not a week later, I find another broken knickknack, and my neighbour lets me know the kids have been round and shows me a picture. Yep, it’s them. I take the picture round to their house.

Woman: “Oh, it’s him again. Here to make more accusations?”

Me: “No, same ones as last time.”

I hand her the picture.

Woman: “Well, that could be anyone.”

Me: “It’s not and you know it.”

Son: “Who’s that, Mum?”

Woman: “Some tosser from over the road.”

Me: “I was telling your mum that I don’t mind you using the basketball hoop, but you need to pay for the breakages.”

Son: “Oh, I, err—”

Woman: “I told him! I told him it couldn’t be you.”

Me: “And I’ve just given her a photo of you climbing my gate.”

Son: “Listen, Mum, I—”

The woman just rants and raves.

Me: “You know where I live.”

To their credit, the lads came round, apologised, and offered to pay for what they broke, as long as I didn’t tell their mum. I offered for them to come back and use the hoop, but only when I left the gate unlocked.

I work as a tutor for research methods in psychology. This is my fourth year, and I must say that I absolutely adore my job! If I didn’t have to get up so early for it — 8:00 am class, urgh — I would do it for free.

The class works like this: the students come over, we hand them worksheets, and they solve the problems. If they have questions, they can ask one of us.

Normally, the students are super nice, thankful for the help, and sweet, but a few weeks ago, I had my first entitled student encounter EVER!

I was sitting on my bench, scanning the class for raised hands, and this entitled first-year student snapped his fingers and whistled, and as I looked at him in disbelief, he waved at me in this “Italian mafioso” manner — outstretched arm, chin raised, not moving his hand, just making a “come here” motion with his fingers.

Really, he did almost all the disrespectful “calling someone” behaviours at once. I think there would only be shouting “garcon” left for him to be more of an idiot.

My boss was sitting right next to me and all she did was raise an eyebrow.

I went over to the student, ready to rumble.

Entitled Student: “Yeah, I don’t know how to solve this problem. Can’t find the approach.”

Me: “Okay, if you have a question, I am happy to help you. You can raise your hand or call my name, just like the other students do. What you cannot do to call me is snap your fingers, whistle, or gesture like a mafioso.”

Entitled Student: “What? Why?”

Me: “Because I am not a dog.”

Entitled Student: “Oh, come on. It’s not such a big deal.”

Me: “Actually, it is. It’s not appropriate. And now you’ve been told that it’s not appropriate, so I know for a fact that you’ve heard me. If you want help, call one of us in an appropriate manner or no one will react.”

With these words, I turned around and went back to the bench where my boss was still sitting. I told her what had happened and luckily, she approved.

The entitled student sat there for a while, stared at his paper, then packed his things and went home. 

I think that he learned his lesson as, the next week, he raised his hand when he had a question.